


Twin Stars

by januarywren



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alpha Jon Snow, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jon Snow, Breeding, Canon-Typical Behavior, Childbirth, Cunnilingus, Dark, Dark Jon Snow, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dominant Jon Snow, Dubious Morality, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Face-Fucking, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Jealous Jon Snow, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, King Jon Snow, Lactation Kink, Light Angst, Mad Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Nesting, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Older Man/Younger Woman, Omega Sansa Stark, One-Sided Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Oral Sex, POV Jon Snow, Political Jon Snow, Possessive Behavior, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Protectiveness, Pseudo-Incest, R Plus L Equals J, Romance, Sansa Stark Deserves Better, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sansa Stark-centric, Sweet, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-02-23 04:23:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23139022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/januarywren/pseuds/januarywren
Summary: He longs to wrap her in the thickest, warmest furs.He watches as she curls her arms around her chest and tucks her knees against herself as if she were a child once more. There's a sheen on her brow, and his fingers twitch.He aches to touch her -He aches to bring her into his world, the one that he alone has made. He wants their scents entangled, and to bury himself between her legs until his name is the only one that she cries.It can be like that, now, he whispers.(Now, he can roll about in the snow, and sink his teeth into the prey that he adores. He knows what he wants, and who he needs, his cravings clearer than anyone might think.)His aunt, the dragon queen, the one who thought he would revel in her bed and follow her every whim, lies dead at his feet...Canon AU | Jon knows exactlywhohe wants.
Relationships: Jon Snow & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 69
Kudos: 611





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phantomphaeton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomphaeton/gifts), [weestarmeggie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weestarmeggie/gifts).
  * Inspired by [when the walls come tumbling down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20976323) by [phantomphaeton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomphaeton/pseuds/phantomphaeton). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was inspired by the amazing, 'when the walls come tumbling down', by phantomphaeton. 
> 
> It's an incredible story and gave me everything that I didn't know that I needed in a Jonsa fic. When a fic makes it right, I *love* jonsa (Daenerys who?), and it made my heart melt to read how protective Jon is over Sansa.
> 
> There's just not enough stories where Jon truly takes care of Sansa, and even wants to help her heal from all that she's gone through (and what he's gone through!). Phantomphaeton's story checks every box, and I couldn't resist writing this. 
> 
> Some things, like Jon's rebirth through the flames, are referenced from the original story, while other details I made my own (like the A/B/O aspect, and Sansa's possible inability to mate). Jon and Sansa have a dark and intimate relationship here, so please mind the tags. It isn't *too* angsty, and is lighter than it might seem, however, I never want to make anyone uncomfortable with my work. 
> 
> And like I said in my endnotes, thank you weestarmeggie, for all the encouragement and the chats that we have. I'm glad that I continued with this story, even when sansan fics distracted me! 😂❤ I hope that everyone enjoys Twin Stars, and stays safe. It can be a very scary time, and I'm thinking of you all.

He longs to wrap her in the thickest, warmest furs.

'Ermine,' Jon decides; the fur one that only the highest royals may wear. 

He watches as she curls her arms around her chest and tucks her knees against herself as if she were a child once more. There's a sheen on her brow, and his fingers twitch.

He aches to touch her -

He aches to bring her into his world, the one that he alone has made. He wants their scents entangled, and to bury himself between her legs until his name is the only one that she cries.

It can be like that, now, he whispers.

(Now, he can roll about in the snow, and sink his teeth into the prey that he adores. He knows what he wants, and who he needs, his cravings clearer than anyone might think.)

His aunt, the dragon queen, the one who thought he would revel in her bed and follow her every whim, lies dead at his feet. The North has risen, as it never has before, while winged beasts circle overhead.

Beasts that follow him alone, and shed little tears after their _mother_ was gone.

They sought no retribution as Tyrion or the Grey Worm had threatened, saving their fire and their rage for the keepers that fed them. Jon was safe, as he knew he would be. (It was curious, he thought, that a mangled hound in the streets would be more loyal than a sacred beast.)

He will not worship them, as his aunt and her followers did, the same as he will not fear them. He controls the dragons the same as he does the southern court, with an unmoving will, and a steady hand. This is a truth that he knows, one that he is willing to drape across Sansa’s bare feet.

They have taken to him in a way that they never have with Daenerys, knowing he has no wish for them to terrorize the skies, nor burn the cities below. They know he is singular in his intent, and trust him as their guardian. And they will follow his sister, nee cousin, too, if she ever needs them.

(Of him.)

The other kingdoms fear and respect him, fitting for one that occupies the Iron Throne. He had a throne made to rest beside his own, one that is a copy of his. He knows that his beloved will never leave the North, the same as he will stay beside her.

Still -

He has thought of every possibility, every path that they may follow. He hopes to feel her small hand in his, as they follow a path together. History may know their story, or they may know nothing but whispers of the Stranger that carried the Maiden away, down, down, down to the world beneath man.

It is not the petulant man that thinks this, nor the man that wanted the world to be fair and just, but the man that was made anew by the fire. He is far more certain than before, though he has brooding moods still when he sinks into the snow and stays there; unmoving and unblinking until the heat seeps from his bones.

He is Jon and he is a Stark, the same as he is not.

The only thing left to him, the only thing that has always been with him, is his feeling for Sansa. He knows that he will follow her more than Ghost, his past dire wolf who never leaves her side now. No matter the path they follow, they will be free, and together. 

Jon and Sansa, together. (He finds he likes the way that it sounds, the same man who ignores the troubadours, and the poets that spin ravaged lands and the rape of a queen into cherished bedtime stories.)

He has little intention of leaving her again.

‘Sansa,’ he thinks, her name like honey on his tongue.

He is less a man and more a beast since he walked through the flames. Whether he has talons and scales, or dense fur and claws he does not know.

He does not care.

No matter the form that he takes, no matter the blood that runs through his veins, he burned himself anew for her, and her alone. The boy that he was before is dead, his childish hopes and pathetic fears gone with him. Sansa is his sole focus now, as she always should have been.

She had been beaten and forced to her knees for the North, Jon knew. She had been treated less than a dog, the same as she had been taken like one. Jon knew that too, the fire revealing unenviable truths to him.

It was Sansa that mattered, the one who was made and born for him alone. He has no thought of those that came before her, the ones who he took to bed, and imagined had flaming red hair and Tully blue eyes. He should feel many things, shame among them, yet he feels nothing, unlike he would have before.

His canines lengthen, crimson bubbling to the surface as they sink into his tongue.

“Sansa,” he whispers, and her whimper makes him feel as if he is burning -

_Burning, burning, burning_ -

He pulls his shirt over his head, his scarred chest bared free. The first time they lay together, Sansa traced every scar with her fingers and her tongue, until he shuddered with his release. She saw him as more than he was and accepted his scars, the same way that she accepted the truth from his lips.

Sansa was more loyal than the Starks had ever been, never mind the way that she had followed her mother as a child. Jon is apt to disregard the royal blood that flows inside him if Sansa desired to treat him like a bastard and resign him to the kitchens. He will take her hate, the same as he will take her love or anything else that she might give him.

He wanted it all, nothing less acceptable to him. He doubts that Sans knows this, as insightful as she is, for he feels more than any man. He feels as a god might, utterly and completely, until he could lose himself in sheer feeling.

It would drive a lesser man to madness, the same as it would send their screaming bride into the arms of a septa. He will not let it control him, the same as he snarls at the idea of Sansa enfolding herself in the arms of a godswood.

She is meant for greater things, beyond the realm of what any man could give her. Jon has forbidden any of the great families to propose matches for her, or himself. His council knows he will fly into a rage if one is dared suggested, the same as they know there is only one match he intends to accept.

The brazen flames that lap inside him are the same that writhe inside her.

His mate.

He will mount her with care, showing her an adoration that none before him had. He knows that she will need more than his knot, his omega, his love, Sansa. She will need everything from him; as he cradles her against him, and takes her with devotion.

She will not last through her heat without a partner, without her mate -

“ _I want it to be you, Jon_ ," she'd whispered to him before she took to her chambers. She had only half heats before, the constant trauma she experienced wreaking havoc on her body. Her mating gland is a filthy scar, countless teeth ripping the skin free. She cried when he tenderly licked the bruised skin, his teeth never scraping the ravaged gland. It heals slowly under his care, though he knows Sansa thinks if they mate, only he will be bound to her.

And she wants him to have a choice, for they both know that he will encourage her to mark him as her own when he guides her through her heat.

_Him_.

Jon Snow.

Jon knows the name of every man that has hurt her, and every woman that has sought to bury themselves beneath her skin. He knows of Tyrion, the half-man that his sister claims was kind to her. He knows too, of the times that Tyrion drew himself close to her while she slept, and took what wasn’t his. He fell when his beloved dragon queen did, their blood pooling as one across the tile.

“ _Why did you bend the knee_?”

Sansa’s voice rang in his ears, the same as he hopes his rings in hers.

“ _For you_.”

He confessed everything to her, when he came North.

It was a duplicitous game that he played, one where he held Daenerys to him, and Sansa closer still. She was the one in his heart, the one that his grasping aunt could never see. He saw how Daenerys reveled in adoration, and how she smiled sincerely when men knelt at her feet. She was their mother, they whispered, she was their queen, she was their anything and everything that they intended her to be.

And Jon said it too, the same as if the words were as sweet as the lemon cakes that his sister had gorged herself on with every feast, in their youth. He lied and he whispered, and he coaxed the dragon queen to him.

He was as patient as Olenna, as soothing as Cersei, as hungry as Aegon, and as cunning as Peter, and every great liar that came before them. He was the best of his lineage, and the worst of them too, a viper that Daenerys encouraged to suckle from her breast.

_Dany, dany, dany_ -

(He could have laughed until he cried, at the thought that she had made him walk through the fire, and burned away all ties he had to her.)

“ _Thank you_ ,” he’d whispered into her shoulder.

“ _For what, my King_?”

“ _Everything_ ,” he replied, his smile as pretty as if he were made for her to love, “ _Everything, my Queen_.”

She wanted him closer than anyone, and so, he wrapped his arm around her while bringing his web forth.

He guided Daenerys into the direction that he wanted, watching as her revelry turned into a thirst that could never be quenched. She was haunted by ghosts, ones that shrieked and spun circles around her.

They were ghosts like Jon, unrestful spirits that would never fade, ones that were more than the dragons could feast upon. They were his fevered touches and his whispers, ones that agitated and soothed her and curled around her heart until she had no more to give.

Daenerys was nothing to him.

“ _You are my reason, Sansa_.”

“ _For_?”

He had watched the tremble of her lips, and felt them too, as he pressed his lips against her own. She tasted like springtime and sweetness as if life itself could start anew. Her hands had tangled in his dark curls, and he had been lost to the world and found by her. 

“ _Everything_.”

He thought of Sandor Clegane, the man whose eyes followed hers. He thought of Jamie and Brienne and Arya and everyone who watched her, who followed her, and held a part of her. Even his brother, Bran.

He wanted to spill their blood too, if only to have all of his sister, all of his love, Sansa.

Was this how his father felt, Jon wondered. Was this the madness of his family, the madness that they would love and love and love another beyond reason until nothing else mattered?

He buried it inside him, knowing all that he had overcome, and who he had overcome.

He would not allow it to drive Sansa away.

_No, **no**_ -

Jon remembers still, the mournful look in her eyes when she saw his own gland. It was untouched, the skin surrounding it without mar. Alphas are rarely marked against their will, the notion almost unheard of. The wildling lover he had before had no interest in mating, and the dragon queen knew that he would never allow her to touch him there.

“ _It would be incomplete_ ,” Sansa said, swallowing tautly. “ _You would be bound_ -“

“ _To you_ ,” Jon murmured. “ _I know, sister_.”

She will never be his cousin, not when she has been the sister he favored, above all others. Jon knows that Sansa thought Arya was his favorite, the one that he could never be without. It was Sansa that haunted his dreams, both as the man he was before, and the being that he is now.

“I would bind myself to you, however I can,” Jon repeated.

He would have his mark forever on his neck, whether she wore his signet ring or not. He remembers when she was a girl, and dreamed of nothing more than having a golden prince beside her, and a nursery full of children.

He wonders if it is her dream still, or whether it had been beaten from her.

“ _They could never take my name from me_ ," Sansa had confessed to him when she cried on his shoulder when he saw the marks that littered her skin. “ _They could never make me forget my family, nor my homeland.”_

But what of her dreams, Jon wonders, what of her fanciful and innocent dreams?

Their family had failed her, the same as the Northern lords that gathered close. No one had come for Sansa, including Jon himself until she had been made into a bleeding queen, a bird with all her feathers plucked from her. The North was no different than the South, sacrificing their children for their ambitions, and upholding the throne above all other. He would open her cage if she wished, and transform the bird into a she-wolf if only so she could live as she wished. 

He will make the world anew for her, Jon knows, to the very depths of his cracking bones. He will ensure more than her survival, he will see her thrive, and feel joy as she had never known before. Jon knows this would be meaningless to tell her, the woman that he will cosset in his arms, and watch over as if she were a kitten with her eyes not open yet, and her paws kneading against his cloak.

His lip curls upward at that.

He will never take another, having no care for offspring or a mate to warm his bed, if it isn’t her. The world outside her chambers could burn and he would kneel at her feet still, accepting her will as his own.

The nest she has made dips when he kneels on the edge of it.

It’s her sanctum, the only one that she has, as her hand slips between her legs and she pitifully keens. It isn’t enough, it’ll never be enough during her heat. Or afterward, Jon hopes, as his instincts purr for him to make her his own; again, and again.

“Jon -“ she whispers.

_Jon, jon, jon_ -

Sansa is the only tether he has to the world of man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat with me: https://januarywren.wixsite.com/januarywren 🌹 
> 
> https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by Grammarly, and thanks to weestarmeggie for encouraging me! 🦝🖤


	2. II

“Jon -“

She cried his name as she canted her hips against his mouth.

He nuzzled his face against her sweet cunt, knowing how she loved the feel of his beard against her skin. She was a child of the North, yet the woman that he knew was a child of Spring. She was tender and sweet, the same as the ripest peach that grew in the southern lands.

Jon thrust his tongue inside her, feeling her walls flutter about his thick muscle. He loved to worship her with his mouth, bringing her alive with his touch. She had thought herself beneath him when he first revered her with his mouth, believing herself too damaged by the ones that came before him.

She was a silly fool, his sweet Sansa, one that he wanted to realize she was the center of his world.

Her hands gripped the headboard still, just as he’d instructed. She took his instructions well, and his punishments even more so; when he would suckle on her fingers, and make her finger herself for disobeying him. He never hurt her with his body nor his words, as he saw the marks on her body, and knew the scars that were present on her heart. 

With the roundness of her stomach, Jon was keen to keep her safe from exertion, even when it came to their fucking -

(Their _lovemaking_ , a faint voice whispered.)

“Oh Jon,” she whimpered, “Jon, Jon, Jon -“

His hands rested on her waist, helping to steady her while she ground her cunt against his face. Sansa was the only one he allowed to fuck his face so as if he were merely an instrument for her pleasure. His mating gland ached as he felt her ecstasy, and he knew if he pulled away from her cunt, he would smell her pheromones coating the room.

Yet there beneath her was his favorite place to be.

Jon purred, hearing his name on her lips once more. “Sansa,” he murmured against her wet, sopping cunt, “My Sansa.”

He remembered when she was a child and had toddled after him in her thick gowns. She often tripped on the hems and cried when she was forced to bundle up in furs, with everything except her face covered so she wouldn't catch a chill. Jon realized that she wanted to tuck her small hand in his and feel him, skin to skin.

(Had she been intended for him, even then?)

He had been amused by her childish admiration and had helped her to walk the great halls of Winterfell. She had delighted when he placed her on the back of Ghost and had pouted when he listened to Jon, more than he listened to her imperious orders. Even when Robb was with them, it was Jon that Sansa looked to, and his sleeve that she tugged at.

Her interest in him had been swiftly noticed by Lady Catelyn, as Jon lifted Sansa on to his shoulders, and galloped around the training yard as if he were her steed. It was Jon that Sansa came to when she wanted to pray amidst the Godswood, carefully reciting the prayers that her septa taught, and it was Jon that she gave her first embroidered handkerchief to, albeit clumsily made.

Yet it wasn’t Jon that was allowed to stay, as Lady Catelyn sent him away from her child.

Robb and Arya were his siblings, the same as Bran and Rickon, and even ward Theon was. Yet Sansa wasn't meant to be his, Lady Catelyn said. She kept her daughter behind her skirts, ordering her governess to keep the bastard Snow away from her. Sansa was kept far from his side, her memories of him fading as she played with her governess, and learned from her mother instead. No, Sansa was her lady mother’, and would never be his.

‘Who is with her now?’ Jon thought, warmth curling inside his chest.

It was a twisted perversion, a pretty sin, that he took his mate, while in her parents’ former rooms. The dressings and furniture had changed, yet it was the same room where Sansa had been made. And now, Jon slept beside her and dressed with her too, neither of them interested in having separate rooms.

There were no ghosts between them, only feelings that they both gave name to.

Want and need and love -

Love burned between them; her flushed skin as warm as the fire that kissed her hair. He slipped his hand up to her breast, where he fondled her, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Her pregnancy had made her far more sensitive than before, and she flinched as he pinched her other breast; a whimper falling from her lips.

“Gentle,” she whispered. “P-Please Jon.”

His purrs grew louder as he felt a stream of milk drip on to his hand, as he knew just how sweet his mate’s milk was.

He often teased her by mouthing her nipples through her nightgown, causing milk to dampen the lace. He would cuddle her against him, chuckling when she awoke with a strangled moan. Everything that she gave him, from her slick to her precious milk, was like ambrosia; golden nectar that he couldn't ignore.

Sansa delighted him more than any other ever had.

Ygritte, Val, Daenerys -

They were nothing to him when he had her.

She was the only one to claim him as her mate, the only one that he would ever love as he had no other. When he had licked her cunt and tasted her changing scent, he had gleamed with pride that she was with child.

_His_ child.

She had wept with happiness, as he enfolded her in his arms and whispered the news. There had been no question of moon tea, as Jon knew that her childhood dream had centered around having a family, and a man that loved her.

She would have her dream, as Jon saw it come true.

Winterfell was their home, one that neither of them wanted to leave. Their children would toddle through the hallways, and have direwolfs of their own when they came of age; Ghost having mated with a direwolf they found wandering the woods. Sansa had a direwolf of her own once more, naming Ghost’s mate, Petal, after her love for the winter gardens.

His grip tightened as he felt her tremble, and her cunt clenched around his tongue. Her cries were higher then, her voice faltering as she moaned. He knew that she was peaking as she cried meaningless things, and keened his name.

And then -

Then his favorite time came when she fell apart from his mouth alone.

Her slick poured into his mouth and dripped down his chin as he drank her essence from her. Her hands tangled in his hair, tugging painfully at his curls as she came. “G-Gods,” Sansa keened, breathless with ecstasy.

He would never allow anyone to see her like this, as sweat rolled between her breasts, and she tossed her head back as she came undone. Her long hair tickled his skin, as he lay bare beneath her. He was hard for her, he always was; his erection pressing against her backside.

“N-No more, Jon -“

"I can't!"

(She could, he knew that she could.)

His grip was unrelenting as he held her against his mouth still, and his tongue thrust in and out her folds. There was the heady smell of sex in the air; one that was saturated with the unmistakable scent of them. Jon delighted when Sansa rolled around in their sheets afterward as if she wanted to absorb as much of his scent as she could. She would giggle when he laved at her skin, and her burning mating gland; wanting the world to know that she was his.

It was his scent that covered her and his seed that dripped down her thighs, and it was his name that fell from her lips. She was a part of him, as he was a part of her, something that neither of them would ever forget.

Sansa rocked her hips against his mouth, groaning as he bumped his nose against her sensitive clit. His tongue wriggled inside her, her gasps increasing. “Jon -“

“Oh Jon,” she whispered, clenching her thighs against either side of his head. She couldn’t get away from his mouth and didn’t’ want to, the pleasure that rolled inside her from him alone. He wanted to keep her against his mouth for as long as he could, knowing that he could draw another orgasm from her.

He’d always taken care of what was his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat with me: https://januarywren.wixsite.com/januarywren 🌹 
> 
> https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by Grammarly! 🦝🖤


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some of you may know, my dad is positive for covid and has double pneumonia. He's spent the last week in the ICU and came very close to passing away. The comments and messages that I've received have been incredibly sweet, and truly mean so much to me.
> 
> My dad was just moved from the ICU to a normal hospital room tonight, though he cannot stand, and can barely eat on his own. He has to stay at the hospital for an unknown period of time still, though we are so, so grateful that he has been moved from the ICU. He has a long way to go still, but he is at less risk of passing away now. 
> 
> My mom is positive for covid, and I tested negative, though with my compromised immune system, and now that I'm showing symptoms of the virus, our doctor is having me re-tested on Monday. I hope that anyone reading this is safe, and your friends/family are too. 
> 
> Thank you for all the support, and on Tumblr, I can send you the hospital address if you would like to send my dad a card. It's so hard for covid patients because (at least here in Michigan) many of the hospitals are not allowing any visitors. Cards have cheered him up enormously, and make things so much better. 💙

Sansa knew what they called her husband, her mate.

The demon lover, she heard them whisper, as Jon stood beside her. He was closer to her than her Hand was, never more than an arm’s length away. If someone rushed towards her, they would have little chance of reaching the very edge of her slippered feet, let alone close enough to sink a dagger, or an heirloom sword into her chest. Nor did Jon allow their words to come close, as he burnt the crude poetry left in her room, and tore the tongue free from the bard who repeated it during the court’s dinner.

The silence had disturbed her, as she kept him from her bed for days after.

And yet -

There was a part of her that reveled in Jon’s violence on her behalf, so reminiscent of other men that she had known, yet he wasn’t violent towards her. He was violent for her, a distinction that made Sansa tremble, and a bittersweet nausea rise in her throat. It wasn’t right, the way that she wanted to take his bloodied hands in hers and kiss his brow sweetly. It was nothing like the future that her father had envisioned for her, nor was it like the fairytales that she had loved as a child.

For one, single moment Sansa wished that Margaery were with her, or even Shae. They would be able to understand what she was feeling, and Sansa weakly smiled at the thought. Margaery would encourage her to share Jon with her, while Shae -

Shae would have told her to keep Jon close, the same way that she kept Tyrion beside her. “ _If you can get a man on his knees, keep him there_ ,” Shae had told her once, and Sansa remembered her mocking laughter still. “ _Don’t let him stand, Sansa, or you’ll be the one begging_.”

Sansa knew the court had little trust for Jon, the same as he held little trust for them in turn. He was different since coming back, entirely singular in his purpose to protect her.

_Possess_ her.

She remained still before her vanity mirror, as she traced hickeys he’d left behind on her neck. Unlike the marks that Ramsay had left behind, she felt a flicker of warmth in her breast, at Jon clearly marking her as his own. It wasn’t enough for him to be at her side, and in her heart. He wanted all of her, without end.

Sansa reached for her favored brush, one that had belonged to her mother before her. She hummed as she ran it over her silk tresses, her eyes fluttering closed at the sensation.

Jon was kind where every man before had been cruel, whether they intended to or not. He never held a knife against her throat like the Hound had, nor did he jerk her from the world that she had known, demanding that she make his world her own. She longed for the comfort and familiarity of home and reveled at their return. Sansa often trailed through the halls that she'd known as a child, and often walked with Jon through the Godswood.

It was everything that she’d wanted, and more, a gift that she would share with their offspring. The desire for a family with Jon hasn’t sated with her pregnancy, no, Sansa longs to have far more than just one child. She wants a pack of her own, one with sons and daughters that will have the courage of Arya, the charm of Robb, and the perceptive nature of Bran. She wants a child that has Rickon’s eyes, and one with the heart of her father, and the loyal nature of her mother. Sansa keenly feels the loss of her family and knows that Jon has no family, outside of the Starks.

She wants them to create their own beginning, their own family.

She paused when his hand covered hers.

“I can do it -“

“I know,” Jon murmured, his touch gentle, and slow as he took the brush from her. She was intensely aware of him, as he stood behind her and brushed her hair like she was a child. She wanted to lean back against his solid frame and have him wrap his arms around her, keeping the world at bay.

There was fear in the courts' heart as if every courtier felt the icy winds that followed Jon. There was an air of unease whenever he appeared, a feeling that set others on edge as if they knew how dangerous he was. And Jon was dangerous, the boy that he'd been dead and gone, Sansa knew. She wasn't a fool or the little bird that Sandor had called her. Not anymore.

There were parts of her that were broken, buckling under the fists of the King’s Guard, and splintering from Joffrey’s harsh lessons. Then there was Petyr, who coveted her in her mother’s stead, and Ramsey-

Sansa swallowed tautly.

She knew that she would never be whole, a wolf inside her with a snare permanently wrapped around its hindleg. There were things that she couldn’t forget, with faces and words that were branded on her skin. The roar of the past overwhelmed her, as it was all that she could hear.

“I’m here with you,” Jon said, his dark eyes meeting hers in the mirror. He saw every part of her, her very soul open to him, as he bared his in turn. They both had filthy, twisted parts of them that couldn’t be scrubbed clean. “No one is between us, Sansa.”

She had told him that she was the North, her body a gilded vessel for her followers. Sansa knew that children were expected of her and a husband, one who would steady and guide her. Yet it was different with Jon, as he made her feel adored. Her heart ached as Sansa flinched at the word.

His hand rested on her nape, a reassuring weight.

She was there, a little voice whispered in her ear, she was there with him. Jon, the man that she’d chosen, and the man that had wanted her in turn. It was her name that he groaned when he came, and it was her name that he allowed to be painted across his sin, a brand that he never wanted to be washed free.

“One,” Jon said, and Sansa responded to his dominant tone by slowly inhaling, “Two.”

She exhaled, before folding her hands in her lap. The breathing exercises that he’d taught her helped, as her thoughts tended to race until they tripped over one another, in a jumbled mess. She wanted to bare her canines as the wolf that she was, the same as she wanted to slip beneath the furs on her bed and pull them up over her head. She never wanted anyone to see the tears that trickled down her cheeks, the tears that her siblings would have never shed if they were in her stead.

Jon set the brush aside, before wrapping his arms around her waist, and tucked her head beneath his chin. “Three,” he continued, and she inhaled again. The feeling in her chest was unfurling, and her breathing became focused again, as he guided her through the breathing exercise, one that he swore soldiers on the field used.

There were men that Jon fought with and drank with, men that become lost in the horrors of the war, and everything that lives outside the Wall. Sansa felt guilty at that, a heaviness weighing in her chest, at the idea that she shares something with the tortured soldiers. They are far braver than her and deserving of relief, though Sansa knew it was foolish to measure their pain against her own.

"Ten," Jon said when they reached the final one. He smiled as he saw her gaze focus once more, and her beautiful blue eyes found his. "Hello, little one."

A blush surfaced on her cheeks, and Sansa nibbled on her bottom lip. “Hello,” she said quietly. “…Thank you, Jon. I just,” her hands toyed with the pearls entwined on her bodice, “I couldn’t silence my thoughts tonight.”

“I know,” he replied.

She could hide little from him, even if she wanted to.

Jon helped her to her feet and clasped her hands in his. She felt the callouses that covered his skin, a primal part of her content tat he could - he would - protect her, and their future children. He drew her close to him, close enough where she could bury her face against his doublet, and inhale the musky, cloying scent of him that reminded her of the precious herbs they dried in mid-summer and the early autumn.

She didn't want him to let her go, as they moved in a silent dance. Jon kept his hand around hers as he slowly spun her as if they were waltzing to a song that only they could hear. Sansa yearned to truly believe the care that he showed her, as it was worth more than any throne if he could only have her.

And he did, she wanted to say, he had her more than any other before. He was the only man in her heart, the only one that she longed to have touch her, and that she wanted to touch in turn, without fear. He never made her nightmares real.

“I envy any woman who may choose her husband,” Sansa confessed, “Her lover.”

As a child, she had dreamed of nothing more than becoming a princess, or a queen. She wanted a prince and a family, and a kingdom that would adore her before she knew the true cost of royalty.

Now, Sansa thought, she would trade her crown for a dairy maid’s bonnet in a moment, if not for Winterfell, and Jon. And the North itself, Sansa acknowledged, as she cared for its people as if they were her own. She knew their names and their faces, and their stories too; the history of the North stitched on to her skin. She remembered it all, and she always would, even if she escaped to live beyond the Wall.

"Robb ruined himself because he chose his own wife," Jon reminded her, his tone as kind as when he skimmed his lips across her throat or combed his fingers through her hair. He touched her freely and willingly, never shying away from the scars that littered her skin.

Her throat tightened. “He did.”

He drew her in a slow circle once more, before pulling her flush against him once more. He felt the curve of her stomach as it pressed against him, and he felt himself smile. “Our child will stay with you,” Jon said, “With us.”

He had little intention of leaving her side again, unless she sent him away, using her own will. He had little interest in the northern lords using his wife as a figurehead and had wielded their fear of him more than once before. " _Remember your queen_ ,” the shadows hissed, “ _Remember the demon lover who trails in her wake, and devours those who look twice upon her_.”

If only they knew their Queen’s demon lover often had powdered sugar above his upper lip, and eyes that danced with mirth when he took teas with Sansa, or how he slipped his cloak around her while they toured the training yard, and her beloved greenhouses.

He found small wildflowers that bloomed into winter and brought them to her, and Sansa had pressed them between the pages of a poetry book so that she could treasure them forever. No one truly knew her husband, not before, nor after his rebirth. No, no one truly knew him but her, as well as the reverse.

Jon knew every part of her, whether she wanted him to or not.

Sansa held tight to his hands, her fingers entwining with his. “Promise me,” she whispered, “Promise that we’ll be a family here, Jon.”

_That I’ll be safe_.

He lowered his head, pressing his lips against her temple. “I promise, Sansa.”

He would never break his promise to her, the only one left in the world that he would burn for. That he would live for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat with me: https://januarywren.wixsite.com/januarywren 🌹 
> 
> https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
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> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
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> Beta'd by Grammarly! 🦝🖤


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not feeling the best, but I've had this chapter in mind for a couple of days now. 💙 With this version of Jon's character, his entire world is Sansa - something that I don't believe would necessarily change, even when they had children, and I wanted to explore that here. 
> 
> There *is* a birthing scene in this chapter, (something I never thought that I would write!), though I made it fairly non-descriptive/graphic. I'm not sure if this is the last chapter of if I'll add more, but I hope that you enjoy it. 
> 
> Thank you for all the support and love. 😭🌺💙

Jon rarely _truly_ saw anyone, but Sansa.

It wasn’t the same as the troubadours that sang of a maiden’s fair beauty, and how enchanted they were, having eyes only for their Lady. No poetic words rose to his lips, nor did grace spring from his heart. He was not a soft man, a gentle man, anymore.

He was a man undone.

He was not the man her father intended for her, the golden-haired prince that would whisk her away from the world. He was the illegitimate child his wife’s own mother hated, the child that was never meant to exist at all.

When Jon stalked the halls with his wife, they rarely spoke at all.

There was a warmth between them, one that a stranger could hardly feel. It was only beneath the council’s table, that Sansa tucked her trembling hand in his, or when they rode throughout the countryside, that she laughed with abandon and he watched her with tenderness.

The guards that accompanied them skidded their gaze away, or kept their heads down when Jon helped his wife down from her horse, and held her taut against his own frame.

“ _I love you_ ,” Jon murmured, and her reply was always the same.

“ _I know_.”

She felt the same as he did, expressing her feelings when they were alone in their chambers, and she let her gown fall. It was the shell of the Queen in the North that the outer world saw, and not the young woman tucked within. Only Jon saw the scars that littered her skin, horrid words, and worse feelings embedded within.

He soothed her by taking her hands in his and guiding her into bed. There wasn't a night that passed without him beside her, as they kept their chambers together. When she awoke screaming from a nightmare, he was there, and knew how to tangle his fingers through her hair -

“ _I’m here_ ,” he’d say, before kissing her chastely.

The bridge of her nose. The curve of her jaw. Everywhere she asked for, and everywhere she wanted, until his kisses turned languid and warm, as he drew his teeth against her thigh, and he drew her cunt open with his hand. He knew how to taste her, drawing small circles across her clit, before delving his tongue inside her.

Her slick was honey on his tongue, ambrosia that he wanted more of.

Yet Jon would keep himself still until he felt tension build to a near painful point, and took himself in hand. He wanted her to feel safe with him, and when she allowed his seed to splatter across her stomach, she would reach out to him like a child wanting love. " _Stay with me_ ," she'd whisper, and he would agree, of course, he would agree.

“ _You’re everything to me_ ,” she’d admit, as she nestled her face against the crook of his neck. 

They were more than lovers then, not quite friends, and nothing like the siblings they'd once believed themselves to be. They were more than anything they could put a name to, as they allowed the other in.

And on the nights that she was truly there with him, he would cover her body with his own, and show her the depths of his devotion. He teased and taunted her with his fingers and his greedy tongue, and his member when she parted her thighs and rocked herself against him.

“ _Come inside me, Jon_ -“ she’d ask, and he’d feel his heart flutter.

Yes, there was more to them than anyone knew.

Only the whole of Winterfell and the outer world glimpsed into their marriage when Sansa increasingly remained in their private chambers, and a costly trade was established with Dorne. “My wife desires lemon cakes above all things, as of late,” Jon announced when faced with curious courtiers.

The reason for the tenderness in his voice and the air of deep satisfaction that followed him was soon made clear, by gossiping maids: their Lady of Winterfell was with child.

Jon heard the hum of the court, as they buzzed with the news.

Some courtiers thought he was a man without a soul, no less than the dire wolves that roamed the woods beyond Winterfell's walls. The thought made his lip curl, as he listened to how he violated their Lady and forced her to partake in horrific games meant for his pleasure.

Others thought he was like the chill of winter, creeping beneath her skin, the same as Bolton had. Worse than Bolton. And Littlefinger and Joffrey and every monstrous man that came before them, only their Lady loved him and was blind to his ways. ‘ _When will her eyes open_?’ they asked, ‘ _When will she see_?’ they wondered.

He was the cruelest creature, the most soulless of men -

They knew him not at all.

Their court mattered little as he ran a brush through her hair, and they dreamed aloud of the future. Sansa wanted everything for their child, regardless of their gender. " _I want them to know that Winterfell is their home_ ,” Sansa said, “ _I… don't want them sent away, even if it’s best for them_.”

Jon knew there were cracks in her armor, ones that he could never fill with his feelings for her alone. “ _It’s selfish_ ,” Sansa whispered, “ _I’m selfish, I know. I just -“_

The world outside their chambers haunted them both; in ways, they would never voice aloud.

Jon took her hands in his, and pressed them against his chest, keeping her from digging her fingernails into the flesh of her palms. “ _We will never allow our children to know the sorrow that we have_ ,” he said simply, acknowledging her fear. “ _They will be birds without clipped wings.”_

Jon still remembered the sight of her tears as they streaked down her cheeks, and how he’d lapped them away with his tongue. There was life inside her that he coveted as the court whispered, a spark, a bright flare that he wished to be engulfed in. And they were right, the sin dripping from his tongue. He wanted all of her.

Yet they were as wrong as they were right, as Jon stayed with Sansa during the birth of their son.

It wasn’t done, it wasn’t right -

He cared not at all.

For it was his voice that Sansa heard as she struggled to push, and his touch that she felt, as he brushed her tears away. He would never spill his seed inside her if she asked, his resolution growing with every whimper, and cry.

“She isn’t meant for this,” the midwife remarked, sorrow coloring her tone as if she knew the nature of men. They wanted heirs above all and never understood when their wives couldn't give them one. “Her hips are narrow my Lord, and she is terribly small -“

“She can,” Jon said, sparing the midwife only a glance. “She will.”

His words weren’t for her, but for his wife, as if he could pour his strength inside her. Outside the wind howled and shrieked, as if Winterfell itself knew how Sansa suffered. Long hours passed as Sansa labored, and the midwife cried out that the child was in breech.

"I'll have to turn them, my Lord," the midwife said, her dark brows drawn in worry. 

It wasn’t his hate that Sansa felt then, no -

He cared nothing for his heir, his child, as Sansa whimpered in pain. 

He washed her in his love as he felt the warmth of her dwindle as if the windows of their room were thrown open, and the chill of winter burst in. It wasn’t the child that he cared for as his wife struggled, but the dimming life inside her.

“Jon,” she keened, and he was there beside her.

The gods themselves knew that he would never leave her, no, never her.

If she fell, he would follow, something he knew without question.

And yet he couldn't face the thought of it, for all of his still heart, and the fear he inspired in his wake. Jon grasped her hands in his and pressed them against his cheek. “You must live,” Jon murmured, in the most tender of tones. “You must, Sansa. My beautiful girl -“

She was his, and he was hers.

He craved for her to be as obedient as she had when she was a child, and Catelyn wished for her to follow her will. "Sansa," Jon whispered as if he were far from a man undone, a man who would abandon life itself if she died. "Sansa, please -"

He was a rabid creature on his knees.

And as Sansa gasped and arched against him, he held her close to him, as if he could force her to remain with him. “Please,” he repeated, “Please, Sansa, you must live.”

He was a god on his knees, a sight the midwife would never forget.

(“ _He loves her_ ,” the midwife would say, later, when she was well into her cups and the townsfolk crowded around her. “ _Jon Snow truly loves our Lady, more than humble Ned loved his own_ …”)

And she did, as the midwife turned their child, their precious child, and Sansa was able to push him from inside her. Jon felt hate as he saw the child gush from her legs, a feeling so strong that it took his breath away.

It was a hideous babe, with its reddened cheeks and eyes shut tight against the world. There lay the heir to Winterfell, the successor to their dreams, as it squirmed like a horrid creature, a twisting parasite. Jon recoiled, knowing could never love it if it took Sansa from him, he wouldn’t love it, no.

Never could he love it.

He felt as Sansa sagged in his hold, and he brushed his lips against her clammy temple. She was the only one in the world that he knew, the only one that would ever matter to him -

His thoughts faltered as their child cried.

“A healthy son, my Lord,” the midwife announced, as she loosely swaddled the babe. He had ten fingers and ten toes, and later, when his eyes opened to the world, they were the prettiest shade of grey. He was a child born from love, a child that would always be loved.

“Our child,” Sansa whispered with wonder in her tone. She opened her arms to their child, their son, as the midwife settled him in her arms. “Our son.” She knew that she cherished him then, more than she had ever cherished another, as she loved him with the whole of her being.

And Jon -

He was wrong, very wrong, that he couldn’t love their son. He felt as the flame flickered and danced, tangling around his very insides.

(He was empty. He was full. He felt nothing and everything in a single burst as if he were the truest man of all; one carved from flesh and bone, one who deserved everything at all.)

“He’s ours, Jon, ours -“ she whispered, for their son was every wolf that she had known, and loved, and lost. And as she rested her head against her mate’s shoulder, she allowed tears to slip down her pale cheeks.

“Ours,” Jon repeated, unaware that he too, had tears soaking his skin, for they were both undone by love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat with me: https://januarywren.wixsite.com/januarywren 🌹 
> 
> https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by Grammarly! 🦝🖤


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration came out of nowhere to update this - I'm thinking I may add one or two more chapters, reading GoT fics lately has reminded me how much I enjoy writing jonsa! 🎉💕
> 
> Speaking of which, I have news that I'm just - beyond words -excited to share with you all: my original work is now in print! I was thrilled to be accepted into four anthologies, two of which have now been published in print + e-book format. 
> 
> The first is 'Springtime Kisses,' my story for the erotica anthology, Royal Protection, by Zimbell House/Temptations Press, and the second 'Languid Yellow' is apart of a horror anthology, 101 Proof Horror by Haunted MTL. 
> 
> Seeing my work in print has been a dream of mine ever since I can remember - I'm twenty-one now, and have wanted this more than anything in my life. I couldn't have done it without all of you and your support - your comments, kudos, bookmarks, etc. pushed me to start entering anthologies and other writing contests, and I'm so, so thrilled. 🤍 
> 
> I'm posting about it today (Friday) on Tumblr with pictures and lots of just, gushy thank yous, and excitement. I truly want to thank all of you for supporting my work, and being so, so very kind. It's changed my life for the better, sharing my work with all of you, and makes me happy every day. 🤍 Thank you!!

It wasn’t quite love; what Jon felt for his son.

He was never far from Sansa, who was rarely apart from their son. She marveled at the sight of his blue eyes, with his long eyelashes and the way he would yawn, as if he had little idea of how cruel the world could be. When their son held on to Sansa’s finger, she wept, before admitting to Jon that nothing made her happier.

Jon was hers, and their son, Jasper, was theirs.

Sansa nursed him from her own breast, dismissing the idea of a wet nurse. Jon often held her against him, as she held their son in her arms and cooed at the sight of him nursing. It was more than Sansa had ever imagined when she sacrificed her body for the North. It was more than she had ever dreamed of when she imagined a knight riding in to save her and birthing a handful of golden-haired children.

“ _I adore you, sweet wife_ ,” Jon often murmured in her ear, his heart lifting at the sight of his wife’s smile.

Sansa was his center, the only one that he held feelings for.

It was a truth that Jon kept from his wife, and all those around them, as he declared how proud he was of his heir and made plans for his inheritance. No one would – no one could – understand what the fires had taken from him and given to him in turn. He was born again, rising from the flames as someone less, and more than any mortal man. It was above him to put into words, a catalyst that Jon could hardly profess to understand himself.

Yet he knew that that the past was not his own.

The life of Jon Snow was one that he could no longer remember, the memories bereft of their emotion. He saw the Wildling woman that Jon Snow had loved and felt nothing for her; only for the woman tucked beneath his arm, with her name carved inside of his heart. Sansa was his tether to the mortal realm; Sansa was the one who made him feel whole once more.

“I am Jon Snow,” he told himself in the morning, “I am the King in the North.”

He never told himself who was he married to, who he loved beyond reason –

His feelings for Sansa made him feel warm, and aware of the heart that beat inside his chest. It ached when his wife was away from him, as she clung to her duties with the fervor that Ned Stark had imprinted upon her. The sight of her smile, the scent of the rosewater and jasmine that clung to her –

Everything about her drew him in as if he could burrow himself inside her, and share the same soul.

There was a part of Jon Stark that he’d lost in the flames, a part of the man he once was that would never rise again. He was Jon Stark, the near brother that had played the wolf children, and wept from shame over his false lineage. He was a bastard, a man who knelt before his betters, and wore the mantle of honor as if he were a true lord.

Yet Jon Stark was less, and he was more, for he was more than every man in the North, to say nothing of men in the South. He was a god masquerading in the shell of a man, one that lived for one soul alone.

_Sansa_.

Jon held his son close and pressed his lips to his temple; without feeling warmth.

His son wasn’t his tether, no, only Sansa was.

It was a truth that would have made the man he once was weep, for Jon Stark had dreamed of having children of his own. It was a dream filled with sorrow, as a bastard's children had little inheritance and no honorable place in the world. The best they could have aspired to would have been serving the sons of other men; as they became wards of the North or squires in the South. They would have found their place in the world on bended knee, the same as Jon Snow once had. It was a foolish dream, one that would have only brought pain to them all.

“Sansa,” Jon murmured, combing his fingers through her hair.

It was a rare time of rest, as she slept with her head in his lap. She was bundled in his furs, including the cloak that she had made for him; with Dire wolves chasing the moon embroidered across the back. There was never a question of whether he belonged in Winterfell, for Sansa willingly shared the Stark name with him, and her home.

“ _It’s ours_ ,” she’d whispered to him, as they walked the halls alone, and slept in the same bedchamber that her parents had once claimed as their own. Winterfell was for their son to inherit, a home that would never leave the Starks once more.

Jon hummed a soft song, one with words that were lost to him.

There were times when he ached at the dream of Sansa having burned in the fire beside him, the flames lapping and tearing at the souls they once had. He dreamed of Sansa being free of the past that haunted her, the words and the actions of others carved into her soul. He wanted her to be free of the Stark massacre, the golden prince that was little less than a monster, Littlefinger, and Bolton –

Jon curled his fingers around her nape, his touch gentle in a way few could ever imagine.

He knew every mark and every scar, as he had traced them with his fingers, and bathed them in his love. He gave all of himself to Sansa, with his fingers and his tongue, and his cock that often wept for her. He felt overwhelming warmth when he slid inside of her and felt that he was home.

‘ _Sansa, Sansa, Sansa_ – ‘

He was her lover, her slave without end.

No one knew what passed between them, and no one would, as they kept the world far from their chambers. Jon kept Sansa’s heart as his own, one that no one would ever have hold of. Nor would they have a part of him, as he lived only for one, and made her dreams his own.

It was a relationship that no one would understand, and one would question as if it could ever be unnatural. Jon loved Sansa as his equal, as his own, as if she were the same as a goddess in truth. He ached for the flames that would undo her past and seal her future, entwining hers around his. 

There were parts of Sansa that would never be his as her soul was fractured and pained. They were pieces and parts that Jon could never put back together, nor could he free her from. It was a desire that crept beneath his skin, one that he would never admit to, as he regarded her sweet expression.

When she slept in his hold, she was often free from worry and concern, with her lips gently parted. It was love that bound them together, love that would never dwindle as they consumed one another. It was a love beyond mortal understanding, as Jon knew they would never be parted; they would only be whole in the arms of one another.

It was a love they would never free themselves from; one that the man he once was would have been ashamed of. Sansa was the one that his heartbeat for, the only one that his very soul ached for. He was beyond honor, beyond shame, beyond even the ties of family that he once had clung to as a hellish lifeline. He was free as only a god could be, one that saw through the eyes of the dragons that followed in his wake.

“My little light, my sweet wife,” Jon whispered, moving to press a kiss to her temple. She scrunched her nose at the feeling before she nuzzled her cheek against his hand. He was the one that she wanted, the monster that she willingly shared her bed and her home with.

For in the very depths of her soul, she knew that he was the only one that could protect her, the only one that would never falter in his love for her. He was hers and hers alone, and oh –

How she loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat with me: https://januarywren.wixsite.com/januarywren 🌹 
> 
> https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by Grammarly! 🦝🖤


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